Pools of Deception: Curve of Humanity

By Maquel A. Jacob

Aliens crashing on Earth in the 1970s, lead to an explosion of hybrid humans. Some with powerful abilities, others lying dormant. Tossing the 21st century Olympics on its head.

The United States' Olympics Aquatic committee, hell bent on regaining their glory in the only event they dominated, needs a savior from the swim team. They get more than they bargained for.

Enter Frankie Mel Donovan, the golden boy, drunk on fame and notoriety. Gerald, a married committee member who finally finds his true soulmate. Blane and Ravi, two swimmers with delusions of grandeur and consumed with envy. Even the head coach shows questionable ethics.

The committee can't keep a leash on the giant mess.

Who knew the Olympics were so scandalous?

Dive into an angsty, profanity laden alternate history with a pool full of egomaniacs. A story within the Curve of Humanity timeline.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maquel A. Jacob
• Release date: Jun 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781950438235

Maquel A. Jacob

Maquel A. Jacob writes gender shifter social sci-fi with a little bit of romance and a touch of gore. Originally from the Windy City of Chicago, she now resides in Oregon. Since the age of seven, Maquel has had a passion for the written word, reading everything she could get her grubby little hands on, including encyclopedias and the thesaurus. At twelve, she had an encounter with a Stephen King novel and was hooked. This was the inspiration for writing her own brand of fiction by combining multiple genres to keep things interesting. Always ready to learn new things, her search for knowledge never ceases. She has an Accounting degree, a Business Administration degree, was a certified Nail Technician and studied Digital Film and Video at the Art Institute of Portland. She is a huge Anime fan, loves a great bottle of wine and rocks out to heavy metal music. For cool limited-edition Swag, updates, FREE short stories, Newsletters ...and more Visit: www.majacobauthor.com Like Maquel A. Jacob on Facebook  https://www.facebook.com/MaquelAJ1 Follow on Tumblr @MaquelAJ1 Twitter https://www.twitter.com/MaquelAJ1 Also find me on Goodreads

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Breaking the Surface

BUBBLES GURGLED ON the clear blue surface, causing ripples in the water. A shadowy figure emerged from below, the black swim cap more visible the closer it came. The roaring underwater sound echoed in the young man’s ears, getting fainter until he burst out, gasping for air. Thunderous cheers erupted. He removed his goggles to squeeze excess water from his eyes and focused on the three quarters full arena of spectators.

He swam smiling big to the edge where a small ladder allowed him to haul his slender, fourteen-year-old frame onto the cold hard tile. The cheers continued as the AI announced his judges’ scores ranging from 9.7 to perfect tens. His dive’s difficulty level at 3.5 made the score even better. After the final round of diving for the Olympics, he had secured the gold medal. His teammates rushed him, slapping his wet skin and shaking him.

And Francis Donovan, the youngest competitor this year, has won gold, taking the title of best diver in the world!

A reporter came running towards him, microphone in hand, holding it out for him.

Francis Donovan! How does it feel to be the youngest gold medal winner in diving? Her words came out rapid fire, giving her no time to catch her breath. What are your plans now?

Francis laughed, scratching his head, messing up his already matted hair.

The next Olympics, I guess. He frowned. I’m glad all my hard work led me to this win. I couldn’t have done it without the support of my coach and teammates.

There you have it, the reporter beamed into the camera. A new Olympian on the rise. We look forward to seeing you in Tokyo, Japan.

When she left, her cameraman trailing behind her, Francis looked over at his coach. The man’s grin showed so much pride, he almost felt self-conscious. How embarrassing!

Come on gold medalist. Let’s get you some grub then ready for the ceremony. He glanced at everyone on the team. We did it, kids. A gold for Francis and silver for the team. Time to get serious.

The cheers from the audience intensified. His coach patted him on the back as he headed for the sprayer to rinse off. Shivers went through him the moment he reached open air and whipped off his cap. Lukewarm water sprayed out, easing his discomfort.

FROM THE WINDOW SEAT of the coach bus, Francis admired Japan’s landscape. The Olympics were over, and he had the most exciting time of his life. Diving was his passion. Since the time he could swim, the feeling of weightlessness as he soared into the air towards the deep waters captivated him. The water made him calm; it enveloped him in soothing tranquility. People would say he moved like an eel, slithering along the surface, sometimes below.

He placed a hand on the window, spreading his fingers. Leaving seemed bittersweet. But now they all needed to train for the next one. Four years may sound long. To them it was a blip in time. They had to qualify for regional and world championships. Only the best were allowed to advance and compete in the Olympics.

Time to get serious? That was an understatement. As the youngest gold medalist, he would have to prove himself because in the next one, he won’t be. He will be an eighteen-year-old adult. No more notoriety. With a heavy sigh, he turned away from the window and caught his coach’s knowing stare. He realized it too.

U.S. AQUATICS COMPLEX Colorado State

THE BEST DIVERS AND swimmers in the United States filled the Olympic sized pool area. Reporters, sponsors, family, and committee leaders sat in the bleachers observing the elite athletes training to keep their place on the Olympic team. Whistles blared, mingling with the shouting of coaches at their wards. The slapping and splashing of water created a strange rhythm.

Fifteen years after the catastrophic alien crash landing of 1974, the world discovered their survivors living on Earth breeding with humans. The introduction of Bi-Genetics, the scientific term for hybrid humans, sent the sports world into uncharted territory. Many of the hybrids could shift their sexual orientation at will. Schools around the world created new departments separating academics and Athletics. Those children who didn’t land in one of those categories the administration placed in General Studies.

The aliens’ enemy showed up a decade later, declaring war. They gave humans fifty years to advance their technology for a fighting chance. World leaders tapped their country’s athletic departments to find the best athletes to represent them. The Olympics became a contest of who had the biggest sack and the most talented specimens. Instead of every four years, the Olympic Committee voted to hold them every two, alternating the summer and winter games.

Every major city around the world built facilities in preparation for hosting the games. There would be a lottery instead of each country bidding against the others. No one got the option to bow out.

Hybrids rotated on both teams at intervals. The committee implemented one rule to level the playing field. If an athlete was on the men’s team, they could not also be on the women’s at the same time. They would have to wait until the next season.

The Aquatics division was no exception. For the past ten years, the United States dominated the field, boosting their status among the other countries. Still looked upon as selfish, hypocritical, bullies, its leaders hoped those young athletes could change the image.

That was the US Olympic committee’s task.

A married couple representing the committee sat in the bleachers observing each swimmer and diver with eagle-like eyes. Catching every mannerism and body stance. As former Olympians themselves, they took stock of the young athletes’ form and times. One or more of them would be groomed for success to become the face of the nation.

After an hour and a half of brutal heats, the head coach called an intermission. A few athletes exited the pool to rest. Others continued playing in the water.

Francis laughed as he and four others splashed water on each other. His diving teammate got a mouthful from one of the two swimmers.

Ack! He sputtered, letting the water spill from his mouth. That was dirty! He went to splash the guy back, but Francis got ahead of him and missed, getting the other one instead. Oh, ho! He clamped his hand over his mouth.

The hell, Francis! The swimmer yelled.

Francis waded past him. You mad? Come catch me.

He took off swimming, the other three in tow. In the split second they caught the swim coach’s eye, he took out his stopwatch. They were near the starting point for 400m. He wanted to see if his boys’ time would improve in a relaxed state. Halfway, he realized they were not closing the gap on Francis, and they were going hard to reach him. Francis’ coach and the two committee members noticed as well.

As Francis tagged the other side of the pool, the other three coming behind doing the same, laughing merrily, the coaches went silent. The swim coach stared at his stopwatch. Francis Donovan swam a 400 meter heat a few seconds shy of the world’s record with no effort. He turned to the diving coach. An ominous vibe crept into the aquatic center.

The Olympic committee members leaned towards each other, whispering. The dive coach felt a stone drop in the pit of his stomach. Nothing good would come from this.

YOU’RE BEING SELFISH, Ken! The swim coach, Craig Bergenheim, yelled at the diving coach. He would guarantee a gold medal for the swim team.

That’s not what he wants! He’s a diver! Ken Scholes replied in aggravation.

Who can swim like a goddamn fish. You know better than anyone how we look to the rest of the world right now. This would solidify our status. Regain trust. He’ll get over it.

Is that what you’d say to your boys? Ken snapped. He knew Craig would never use his own athletes for something so sinister. Just because you have no respect for your team doesn’t mean I don’t.

The hell did you just say? Craig raised his fists to his side.

That’s enough. Sharice Montgomery of the committee came into the room.

Her tall frame immaculately dressed in a skirt suit; Sharice gave an angry stare. As the heir to her family’s billion-dollar empire, her seat on the committee had been bought by her father, Phillip. Her husband, Gerald Ivers, a former three-time Biathlon gold medalist, stood beside her.

There’s no call for such language. She got closer to them and let out a sigh.

Gerald went to Ken’s side. No one is telling you to kick him off the dive team, he said in a reassuring tone.

The hell I’m not! Craig retorted.

That helps no one, Gerald snapped. He addressed Ken again. There is no rule that says it can’t be done.

I am proposing something different, his wife said. They turned to her. He can stay on the dive team as a permanent alternate. That way he keeps his spot.

He won’t take that! You’re basically cutting him off at the knees. What kind of plan is that? Ken snapped.

He’ll take it. Her eyes seemed to gleam with malice. What athlete would turn down guaranteed gold medals?

There is no guarantee! Ken spat.

With me coaching him, Craig smirked, it is.

He walked off, feeling victorious, with Sharice following him.

Be smart. Gerald said to Ken. Tell him gently, and let him know the stakes. Contrary to what you may believe, I don’t like what my wife suggested, either. He squeezed Ken’s shoulder. We can’t lose him. For any team.

Gerald left Ken alone in the locker room, fuming. After a few minutes, he calmed down. Telling Francis he needed to switch to the swim team would devastate him. He already knew he would feel the same.

WHAT? NO! FRANCIS’ face turned bright pink with fury. I’m a diver. I like diving! Why? Why would you let them do this?

Francis! Ken grabbed hold of his shoulders. "I did not let them do anything! He cupped Francis’ face in his hands. I know this is not what you want. He leaned forward so their foreheads touched. You need to comply for now. Stay low, do as you’re told, and don’t make any waves. We’ll figure it out. I promise."

He leaned back and stared into Francis’ teary face. The rage he held inside emitted from his soul. Something wicked surfaced and Ken let him go, stepping away.

Fine. Francis’ voice quivered. He wiped away snot and tears with one hand, flicking the residue on the tiled floor. A sign of disrespect for the pool area. Whatever. He turned away from him. I know you mean what you say. Problem is, you can’t fix it. He glanced back over his shoulder. They got us both by the balls. We won’t ever win.

In that moment, Ken saw Francis age intellectually from fifteen to thirty. A new understanding of the situation. He hung his head, watching Francis leave the area. The kid was right. That didn’t mean he would give up on trying to get him back on the diving team, where he belonged.

EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER

THE WHISTLE BLARED, causing the swimmers in the pool to stop.

What the hell was that? Coach Craig yelled. More! Get the lead out of your asses and swim! And you! He pointed to Francis. You think half assing it is going to make this all go away? You have one job. Win a gold medal. Now act like it. He blew the whistle again. That goes for all of you!

They went back to the starting end, their morale sinking. Francis stared at the coach with deadpan eyes. He sank down into the water and let it take hold of him. His frame of mind needed recalibrating. The rippling motion echoed in his ears, lulling him to relax. It muffled the coach’s screaming above. He counted to ten, slowing his heart rate, then emerged from the water.

You ready to take this seriously now, princess? The coach chastised him. Francis grabbed the edge and propped his feet flat against the pool wall. I want to see some improvements. He blew the whistle.

The team pushed off for a 200 meter backstroke heat. A skill that became Francis’ specialty.

An intermission called two hours later saw the team exhausted and miserable. The World competition was coming up in less than four months and the coach had lost his mind scheduling more training sessions than necessary. All for Francis’ debut as a member of the swim team.

The two swimmers he had raced for fun a year and a half ago sat next to him on the bleachers. Ravi Abenashid had a towel around his neck while Blane Hardy had his draped across his lap with his head tilted back. Francis ran his own towel over his wet hair and left it there.

He’s a goddamn menace, Blane said with his eyes closed.

I get it, he wants us to be some kind of powerhouse, Ravi said.

That doesn’t mean he has to be a dick. Francis leaned back, exhaling slowly.

Ravi stared at him. Blane peeked over, opening one eye. Francis used to find it creepy how they scrutinized his physique. Now, he found it funny. Almost everyone experienced growth spurts. At fourteen, his height was five feet ten inches. Now he stood at six feet two inches with a body of all lean muscle and still time to grow a little more.

I don’t see the reason to push us so hard when the whole thing hinges on you. Blane sat up and leaned forward, letting his arms dangle between his thighs. We’ll get gold regardless.

He’ll get gold, Ravi corrected him. We get gold if his time pushes us over the edge. None of us are as fast as him.

Stop, Francis held up a hand. I’m still just a kid.

With an Olympic gold medal and a team silver. Blane snorted. Yeah, you’re so not intimidating.

Maybe if you taught us your technique, Ravi shrugged. We could get close to your level.

Hey! Blane nodded. That’s a great idea. We could have like private lessons from the master.

Francis rolled his eyes. It wouldn’t solve anything but indulging them wouldn’t hurt. Why not?

WORLD COMPETITION NEW Mexico

THE BLACK SKULL CAP pushed securely on Francis’ head hid a surprise underneath. He laughed at himself for coming up with a genius way to debut his swimming career. The coach would have nothing to say. That was step one. The next step loomed just ahead at the registration table at the end of the corridor down the hall. Floor to ceiling windows lined the entire way, giving access to the view of the mountains.

Hushed conversations popped up every so often in the quiet corridor. Wearing his USA Team uniform, a red, white and blue tracksuit, he hummed happily as he walked. On a whim, he removed the cap to let his now dark blond hair with a few highlights, cut in a layered shag that touched his shoulders, flow down.

A man came out of the side door ahead of him on the right. Tall. Only an inch or two taller than him. His demeanor held a swagger of confidence. The dark tailored suit hugging his body nearly blended with the dark brown hair that fell across his shoulders in deep waves.

Their eyes met. Francis froze, as did the man. Though he had never experienced the feeling before, he knew it immediately. That undeniable connection of two hearts and minds intertwining with ease as if they had become one being. Soulmate. Shifters had a psychic bond to theirs when they found each other. The man placed his hands in his pants pockets and approached him.

Francis, the man said.

It’s Frankie, he replied a little too harshly. He looked away, embarrassed.

Frankie. Sorry. I’ll remember that. I finally get to meet you. He glanced at Frankie’s hair, amused, but didn’t say a word.

Oh? Frankie raised an eyebrow.

I’m Gerald Ivers, one of the US Olympic committee members. He didn’t extend his hand, knowing Frankie wouldn’t take it.

So, you and your wife are the ones who railroaded me into the swim team?

Gerald seemed to rear back as if struck. I didn’t want that.

Then why didn’t you fight harder to stop it?

Gerald stared at him. Frankie knew he had asked a stupid question. His research found the wife held the most seniority and clout as the daughter of a billionaire sponsor with pull among the Olympic conglomerate. His words would mean nothing.

I hope to see you win. That’s the only way this will be worth it.

Too close. Every step the man took towards him, Frankie would move back. He now stood against the wall with the Gerald mere inches from him. He planted both hands on the wall on each side of Frankie’s face.

That’s some move, Frankie snorted playfully, hiding his nervousness. If you’re not careful, I’ll report you as a dirty old man.

I’m only thirty-one.

And I’m a minor, so. The man slid his hands away and stepped back. Don’t you have a wife and kids to think about?

I do. The sadness in his voice made Frankie wince. There was no love in that marriage. The rumors were crude and borderline hateful. I wouldn’t make a scene.

Good job. If you’ll excuse me. Frankie pointed to the registration table. I have to get my stuff so everyone will know I’m an Olympic hopeful.

Gerald gave him a disappointed look. Frankie knew what it meant. He had changed a lot since the switch. And not for the better. Gerald walked the opposite way. When he had gone a good twenty yards, Frankie whispered, Would you even wait for me?

To his surprise, Gerald answered without stopping. I would for as long as it takes.

By the time he got back to the hotel, the rest of the team were in the main hall getting lectured by the coach before heading to the aquatic center. Frankie snuck past them and reached the elevators before anyone noticed.

He got to his room, a small space with four beds, two on each side facing each other. He quickly threw his stuff onto his duffel bag lying on the one by the window on the right. Sliding the lanyard over his head, he left.

This time, the coach caught sight of him as he tried to blend in with the rest of the team. The man stopped yelling mid-sentence and his stare bore into him like a laser beam. His teammates turned towards him. All eyes would be on him from now on.

THE MASSIVE AQUATIC center loomed ahead as the buses turned onto the main road leading to the entrance. Security checked each vehicle before raising the gate arms to allow passage. Security led sniffing dogs around to detect illegal drugs or bombs. A sign planted in the grass on the other side mapped the layout of the premises. Two Olympic sized pools awaited the diving and swim teams representing countries from around the world.

Once escorted to the locker rooms, the team stripped down to their swimwear. Everyone had their design preference. Frankie went with leggings that barely set at his hips, showing the cut muscle right above his pelvis. Ravi wore the tight thigh length shorts while Blane went full Speedo, the sides of his ass cheeks exposed. The diving team geared towards those two outfits so the judges could better see their form. A sense of envy gripped Frankie. He wanted to compete in the diving competitions.

A former teammate came up behind him and slapped the middle of his back.

Don’t worry about us. When we need you, we’ll let you know. Go out there and show those assholes what you’re made of. He walked past him. Cool hair. The smile on his face let Frankie know he was being sarcastic.

Frankie watched the diving team head for the opposite side where their pool waited. The swim team lined up and entered their competition site. The pool didn’t seem too impressive and the water, too blue. Fresh chlorine. Which meant it had not been cleaned beforehand, and the standard ozone treatment wasn’t being used. Thank God for goggles.

Off to the side, the coaches and committee members were having a shouting match with the facilities manager about the water. There was no reason in the current era for any aquatic venue to not use ozone for sanitization. A few places were stuck in the old ways and the backlash increased. Frankie had a feeling the venue would switch by next year.

While the team settled into their area, the coach came up to Frankie.

You pace it and win for the next heat. Nothing else. Don’t you blow that world record until the Olympic games, understood?

You want me to go slow on purpose? Frankie’s eyes bulged.

Is there a problem? You have one job. Win gold. Get into the Olympics. The Coach leaned closer with gritted teeth, Win. Gold. And set a new world record.

Frankie felt a boulder hit the pit of his stomach. The games had become a gauge to show the alien races on Earth that humans were capable of fighting for themselves. That we had skills to contribute to the cause when the enemy came knocking. Each country vied for leadership, citing their popularity at these events. The United States had lost favor over time due to arrogance and now they wanted to show the world they were still relevant. Still a superpower.

I get it! And he didn’t like it.

That’s... Frankie struggled to find the words for such a farce.

What the committee has agreed on, Coach Craig finished for him. We don’t show all the cards in our hands. This is just a taste of what America can do.

I don’t...

You will do as you’re told, Francis Donovan, Coach Craig seethed.

He walked off, leaving Frankie in a state of despair. This isn’t how he wanted to debut.

It’s Frankie, he whispered to himself.

He looked around at the other swimmers, getting ready to prove themselves for their own validation and the country they came to elevate. What the coach suggested spat in the face of their training. Their efforts would be for nothing because his actions determined the pace and who went into which heat.

Breakfast resurfaced, climbing up his esophagus. He ran to the restrooms, bursting into a stall and leaning over the bowl, vomited everything in his stomach. He spit out the last of it and slammed a fist against the stall. Tears dripped onto the seat. He knelt by the toilet while it flushed.

Hey! Frankie! You in here? The sound of Blane’s voice startled him. He saw purple and green wet shoes from under the stall. You okay? He swung the unlocked door open. Oh, man, are you sick?

I’m fine. Just didn’t feel so good. Breakfast is gone.

Well, that shit sucked anyway. You’d think they would give us better food. Being Olympic athletes and all. He held out a hand. Come on. Before the coach realizes you’re missing.

Frankie took his hand and let himself be pulled up. He went to the nearest sink and rinsed his mouth out. Outside the main door, Ravi stood waiting. He ran his fingers through the side of Frankie’s hair.

You sure you’re okay?

Yep. Frankie took a few deep breaths. Let’s get this over with.

THE OLYMPICS TOKYO Japan

FRANKIE CURSED HIMSELF for being late again. His roommates, Ravi and Blane, did not wake him up when they left for registration earlier. Now he had to run to the main complex and get all his credentials before opening ceremonies. At the table he rested both hands on the top and gave the woman checking in athletes a wink.

Hey beautiful, I’m here to get my documents, he spurted out of breath.

The older woman looked up from her tablet and frowned. She moved a mound of free swag to the side. What’s the name? The man sitting two feet from her gave Frankie a side glare.

Well, you see. Frankie pulled a folded document from his uniform jacket’s breast pocket. I have a name change for competition purposes. He handed it to her.

Francis Donovan. She pulled up his information on the tablet, then hit the edit button. She typed in the details from the document. Your competition name is now Frankie Mel Donova." Her face scrunched in distaste.

Exotic, right? The ladies will swoon.

The woman finished his registration, printing a new badge and paperwork. She handed him his lanyard along with a large packet she stuffed the papers in.

Yeah, good luck with that.

Frankie put the skull cap back on, tucking away any stray hairs inside. He collected his things and headed back to the dormitory. The coach and his team were in the common area waiting for him.

Shit!

Donovan! What the hell do you think you’re doing? The coach’s face reddened with each word.

It’s Frankie...

Why are you late? You think you got some sort of privilege?

Mel Donova.

What did you say? The coach demanded.

Frankie raised his lanyard so he could see. The team got a good look, too.

Huh? When did you change that?

I petitioned for it months ago. My parents signed off since I wasn’t eighteen yet.

Are you serious? One teammate asked incredulously.

Well, Frankie, the coach said his name with disdain. You’ll have to get up to speed from your fellow team. I’m not going to repeat myself. He folded his arms. And take that damn hat off! It’s eighty degrees outside.

Frankie lowered his lanyard and took off his cap. His now fully blond hair spilled out, each layer falling in place and settling on his shoulders. Some of his mates gasped and snickered. Coach Craig was not amused.

What’s the meaning of this shit?

New name, new look? Frankie shrugged.

Exasperated, Coach Craig turned away.

The buses are here. Everybody load up. As Frankie got on, the coach leaned over and whispered, Don’t you dare make a scene, Frankie. Again, he spat out his name like venom.

Don’t worry, coach. I got this. Frankie patted him on the shoulder, then went to his seat.

INSIDE THE STADIUM, the jubilant atmosphere nearly choked him. So much nervous energy and excitement combined with the masses felt stifling. Like he was being squeezed into a bottle. The Parade of Nations was underway. In the main corridor below the dome, each country’s athletes lined up ready to display their pride to the world.

Frankie stood at the front of his procession, bearing his country’s flag. When the